


Those War Table Blues

by fabrega



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Crack, Gen, Video Game Mechanics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 19:15:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2744033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fabrega/pseuds/fabrega
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything the Inquisition has done has been necessary, helpful, and important. There are no small tasks, Cullen tells himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Those War Table Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Because I kept sending everybody but Cullen out on important missions. Vague spoilers through Here Lies The Abyss.
> 
> For Alex, whose fault this mostly is.

The Inquisitor is staring intently at the war table, and Cullen is trying his hardest not to look like he cares. There are several dozen trouble spots on the map, each marked with a little standing token (when had Cassandra had time to get those made?) or, in a few more serious cases, knives that the Inquisitor had driven right through the map into the table. He doesn't think about the darkspawn outbreaks and social intrigue and diplomatic emergencies waiting for them, on the table and out in the wide world. Instead, he thinks about the good they've already done, the hurdles they've overcome--saving the templars, the defeat at Haven, that business with the Grey Wardens. Everything the Inquisition has done has been necessary, helpful, and important. There are no small tasks, he tells himself; last week, he had overseen the construction of a bridge, which had in turn resulted in the rescue of an entire citadel full of Orlesian soldiers. There are no small tasks; the Inquisitor herself spends time picking herbs and rummaging around in caves and establishing camps in the arse-end of nowhere, all things that could easily be delegated but she does herself, because they are important.

The Inquisitor scratches at her chin thoughtfully and then makes the quiet, affirmative noise that means she's made up her mind. "Leliana," she says, picking up one token, "I need you to look into these rumors about our newest trading partner." Leliana nods agreement, and the Inquisitor picks up another token. "Josephine, a problem has come up with one of the Orlesian houses we're allied with. Can you negotiate a solution?" Josephine murmurs an assent, and then the Inquisitor... doesn't immediately pick up another token.

Cullen feels his heart sink a little. Immediately, he tries to rationalize the disappointment--he has things to organize here, troops to drill, inventory to supervise, logistics to worry about--

\--and then the Inquisitor picks up one last token. "Cullen," she says, "I need you to scout for resources. We're running low on lazurite."

 _I'm helping_ , Cullen reminds himself. _It's not a real assignment, but I'm helping._ He'd feel better about it if Josephine didn't immediately jump in, well-meaning, and ask if there wasn't something else that Cullen would be better suited for, handling a border skirmish with Tevinter, maybe?

The Inquisitor shakes her head. She _would_. When she's returned to Skyhold recently, she's spent much of her time in the Undercroft with Dagna, producing some excellently-built but eye-searing armor for the group she takes out with her into the world. It's no surprise she's short on lazurite.

Cullen does not argue, just nods. He can do this. He can help.

.

He stops in Herald's Rest before he heads out. It's midday, but it seems like half the bar's patrons are passed out on their respective tables anyway. Dorian is at the bar, partway through a mug of something that presumably ought to be served in a slightly nicer cup. Cullen thinks about the trip he has ahead of him and sinks into the seat next to Dorian before ordering his own mug of ale. (If you'd told Cullen before this all started that he'd be nearly-friends with a Tevinter mostly-magister, he'd have laughed you out of the room.)

Dorian lifts his mug in acknowledgement. "We're heading out to the Hissing Wastes soon," he says. After finishing at the war table, the Inquisitor must have made plans to journey forth from Skyhold.

"Wait, what? She's going to the Hissing Wastes?!" Cullen had been ready to knock his newly-acquired mug against Dorian's in a show of pity and solidarity, but he's suddenly too mad for that. "She just sent _me_ to the Hissing Wastes, to gather lazurite!"

Dorian smirks at him. "There's only so much she can carry, you know. I've watched her destroy a perfectly good piece of armor to pick up another, nearly-identical piece of armor; surely you can't expect her to gather her _own_ rocks."

Cullen takes a deep breath, lets it out, and takes another.

"And who knows, maybe we'll run into each other out there, in the miles and miles of vast, empty desert!" Dorian raises his mug again. He suddenly looks a lot more pleased with his lot. At least somebody is.

"Wouldn't that be something," Cullen mutters, and downs his mug of ale.

.

The Hissing Wastes are miserable. If there is any place that could make Cullen think that the Maker had abandoned his creation, this is it, miles (as Dorian had noted) and miles of vast, empty desert, punctuated by the occasional wild beast or Venatori camp. He should have told the Inquisitor 'no', he thinks to himself as he trudges through the desert alone. He should have delegated this to some underling who needed to learn their place--Maker knows there are enough of them, what with the Inquisitor bringing home new agents of varying usefulness like stray puppies. He should at least have worn a lighter cloak, because the fur pauldrons in the desert are proving to be a less than excellent choice.

He shifts his pickaxe to his other shoulder and trudges onward. "I am helping," he repeats to himself. "I am helping. I'm helping!"

.

The Inquisitor barely thanks him when he returns, just takes the metal he'd dug out of the sand _with his own two hands_ (okay, and a pickaxe and a shovel) and sends him off to the Fallow Mire for more of the same. He takes a deep breath, lets it out, and takes another.


End file.
